


A Golden Ring

by weepingnaiad



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003), Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-21
Updated: 2010-04-21
Packaged: 2017-10-16 23:10:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/170393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingnaiad/pseuds/weepingnaiad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Summary:</b>  Éomer and Legolas celebrate the victory at Helm’s Deep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Golden Ring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hitlikehammers](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=hitlikehammers).



> **Beta:** abigail89, the amazing! Thanks so much, hon!
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** The characters and world belong to the Master himself, Tolkien. I am only borrowing them so they can come out and frolic a bit, not intending any copyright infringement of any sort. I do own my original characters, but they are available for parties!
> 
>  **A/N:** This was written for hitlikehammers’ Five Acts Meme. Artistic: piercings, tattoo
> 
>  **ETA:** I just learned that this story won a Men of Middle Earth Award! I am unbelievably thrilled and flattered! Thank you to my anonymous nominator and to everyone who voted for this and for foxrafer for single-handedly creating this wonderful event for the fandom.

  


Éomer did not join in the festivities, not this night. With the White Wizard’s magic, they had defeated Saruman’s forces, but they were not done. His people were battered and bruised and their spirit near broken. He was restless, anxious, felt caged sitting in Meduseld instead of out there, riding, ensuring the safety of their lands and people. Éomer was not made for politics. He had been reared to be the First Marshal of the Riddermark, to be Théodred’s sword, not to be king. He felt penned in and claustrophobic from the weight of Théoden’s appraising gaze.

Finally, unable to bear the boisterous festivities, he strode out into the night, his cloak and hair flowing behind him in the brisk wind blowing over the White Mountains. The acrid scent of fire assailed his nostrils and he turned his back to the multitude of pyres dotting the landscape, ducking his head as he tried to quench the anger still burning in his gut.

“We are much alike, you and I.”

Éomer whirled at the softly spoken, lyrical words. Behind him, mostly hidden in shadows, his cloak covering his golden hair was the elf that was usually with Aragorn and the dwarf. Éomer straightened, wary.

“We-we are?” he stuttered before catching himself. “Good eve to you, friend.”

Legolas tipped his head back and the cloak slipped from his head, revealing pale hair and gracefully pointed ears. His skin was nearly luminous in the moonlight, but his eyes were a striking unearthly color of blue, pale and sparkling. Delicate lips curled up into a soft smile and Éomer felt something wild and raw surge inside himself.

“It is a good evening, _mellon-nín_. Will the new heir’s presence not be missed inside?”

“I am not in the mood for a party,” Éomer growled and made to turn away, but a calloused hand shot out and stopped him.

“It is the coming storm. It puts all of us on edge.” Legolas cocked his head and stared hungrily at Éomer.

Éomer stiffened, heat flaring outward from the strong grip Legolas had on his arm. He was unsure which storm the elf referred to, the one in the sky, the one in the East, or the one roiling inside him. He felt out of his element, did not know how to react to the almost heated gaze directed at him.

Éomer knew whores and warriors, even knew how to seduce ladies, but he knew nothing of this. The elf was a contradiction, fair, almost delicate, but a fierce warrior. Éomer had seen him fight, was still in awe of his prowess with blade and bow. He knew that he was being measured and he suddenly hoped fervently that he would not be found wanting.

He met the elf’s heated gaze with his own as lightning flashed on the horizon and thunder roared across the plains. Taking two steps forward, and silently praying that he had not misread this, he pressed a hand to the wall next to the elf’s head, his lips hovering, but not touching. Every muscle tensed as he contemplated the flawless, pale skin, the honey-colored lashes that swept against fine cheekbones before leaning the final distance and pressing their lips together.

Legolas surged up, met his kiss fiercely, tangling his hands in Éomer’s hair, pulling them flush together. The world spun as the elf’s taste burst on his tongue. It did not seem possible, but he tasted of summer, of sun, endless sky, and far reaching plains. He tasted of Éomer’s childhood, of leather and horse, of everything that grounded the rider to his people, his lands.

He was lost in the kiss, the heady taste of the warrior’s submission shot to his groin and he moaned aloud, eliciting an answering rumble from the elf. When his lungs were screaming with need, he forced his lips away, but could not part completely from the soft skin as he dragged his lips down over a firm jawline and mouthed against the strong pulse in the arching neck.

Legolas’ hands held him firmly in place, one in the middle of his back, the other cupping his arse. “We can rut here if that is your wish, but do you not have a bed that would make our pleasure even more enjoyable?”

Éomer gasped as their groins pressed together and he took a shuddering breath at the promise in the elf’s tone. Unable to reply, he merely took Legolas’ hand and led him through the servants’ passageways until they came to his room, thankfully empty of interlopers. He shut and bolted the door; the fire was lit, its warm glow the only illumination.

When he turned back to the bed, he froze as he watched the elf undress: first the gauntlets, then the outer tunic, the under tunic; a filmy undershirt was carelessly tossed to the floor revealing a whip chord lean, muscular body, the flesh pale and unblemished. His eyes roamed hungrily until they caught and held, fascinated by the left nipple shot through with a ring of gold.

Legolas chuckled, the sound melodic, but containing husky undertones. “Do you plan on doing this with your clothes on?”

As Éomer hastily stripped off his clothes and heavy boots, he could not keep his eyes from the perfection of the elf’s form, all that smooth, flawless skin ripe for the tasting. When the elf turned away and bent over to strip off his boots, he revealed a tattoo of curling, swirling leaves on the base of his spine and Éomer licked his lips, a wildfire roared through his veins and he was on the elf in a flash, pushing him to the bed.

He felt Legolas’ rumble of approval, barely heard the quiet, _‘About time,’_ as his hands stroked and caressed, his mouth lingering slowly down the elf’s spine. “You’re beautiful!” he mouthed over the twining ivy, sucked a mark into one buttock and grinned as he moved lower. The elf was writhing beneath him, wanting _him_. The thought thrilled him, but before he could mark the long lean thigh, those legs wrapped around his shoulders and held him tightly.

“No more teasing, Rohir. I have wanted you since Helm’s Deep. Take me now, ‘ere I finish before my time,” Legolas purred.

The words were soft, the accent more pronounced, and Éomer could not imagine refusing such a command. His shoulders were released and the elf turned, splayed out beneath him, golden hair strewn across his pillows, the dancing fire giving him an ethereal glow. “Am I dreaming?” he murmured as he moved between Legolas’ spread legs and had to taste the pierced nipple. His reward was Legolas arching and moaning beneath him.

“Not dreaming, Rohir-nín,” Legolas gasped, his hands grabbing and pinning Éomer in place. A strong, proud length prodded him in the stomach and he pulled back, smiling wickedly as he teased the sensitive flesh.

“I thought I must be, to have you here. I have wanted you from the first moment I laid eyes on you, so fierce and loyal, defending your stout friend.” He nipped up the smooth chest and kissed Legolas, the passion flaring, flaming higher until it was the elf who tore his mouth away.

“Now, blast you! No more waiting!”

Éomer chuckled but reached over to grab the small pot of hand cream. Legolas brushed his hand away and scooped some into his palm, his eyes challenging as he slicked Éomer’s length. As though he sensed Éomer’s hesitance he smiled fondly as he lifted his legs, baring himself. “You will not break me. Do it.”

Éomer nudged forward pressed himself into the tight sheath, never stopping until he slid home. Legolas gripped him so tightly he gasped aloud and the world wavered. He had never felt such heat and exquisite tightness. He paused, minutely shifting, testing and teasing.

Legolas would have none of it. He bucked up, grabbed Éomer’s hips and shifted them a hand’s breadth apart. “Move!”

And Éomer did. He had never ridden another with such wild abandon, never had a partner so malleable, and eager, that met him thrust for thrust. It was as though he were riding the Mearas, as though they had become one, united. The gold ring glinted at him and he leaned down, sucking it into his mouth as he shifted to fist Legolas’ shaft. Three strokes and the elf shattered beneath him, a musical cry ripped from his perfect lips and Éomer had never seen anything so beautiful. Legolas clamped down on him and his own climax roared through him, his body shuddering as he buried himself deep inside the clenching sheath.

Éomer dropped to the bed, his whole body sated and thrumming as he blinked slowly at the vision in his bed. When Legolas opened his eyes, the blue so dark he thought he’d drown in their depths, he lifted his hand to his mouth and lapped at the elf’s seed. The taste was less bitter than his own come, tasted of green and growing things and he licked it off eagerly, keeping his eyes locked with the elf’s.

“You are a wicked one. I knew there was a reason I wanted you.” Legolas stretched and arched, white teeth nibbling at his lower lip as his eye lashes fluttered. Éomer was transfixed, mesmerized as he was slowly pulled into a languid, deep kiss.

A surprised moan flew from his lips as Legolas suddenly moved to straddle him. The elf was hard once again! “More?” he squeaked.

Legolas leaned down and nipped at his bottom lip. “Aye, Rohir-nín, but this time I shall show you how a Wood Elf rides.”

Éomer smiled. This was a far better celebration than the drinking games in the great hall.

The End


End file.
